A Breach of Contract
by LostCompass
Summary: You are not a good person. You never were. You will suffer for what you have done, and your loved ones will suffer with you.
1. A Matter of Profit

I am going to tell you a story.

So sit, and listen. I brought the second chair for a reason.

—

It needs no introduction. It is the Imperial City.

Perching precariously upon one of the many arches, Garrotte crouches down on all limbs like a Khajiit, peering down at the gladiators below. He counts few diversions; this, by liberal definition, could be considered one of them.

So rages the championship bout; a tectonic exchange between two fighters whose personae have become ingrained in contemporary Cyrodilic culture. It has become dogmatic amongst the plebeians; you are a blue or a yellow, and that was that (alas, if you declared yourself a 'green,' you would be severely beaten outside of a tavern by _both_ parties). Even the patricians entertain the notion of belonging to such teams, and thus commissioned the finest armor and weapons for their sponsored champion to bear whilst beggars starved in the streets. Such was it that scalping tickets is punishable by the steel-tongued whip.

The bout ends, after much artful posturing. This was it; after the Colosseum had been flooded with pigmented water and ships sailed upon the false waves, after an entire copse was transplanted to recreate a battle in a flowered meadow, this was it. The blue provocator has fallen, his defeat graceful and poetic—no, _operatic_ —falling to both knees and raising his hands in supplication to whatever uncaring deities gazed upon him. His mirror-polished raiment, sculpted in the form of a muscular naked torso, glints like a hydrargyrum fountain in the spring noon sun. Even the rose-red of his blood runs beautifully. He is not slain; that is not the Imperial way. He will for-ever be damnatio memoriae; living the rest of his life as a pariah, his name condemned and forgotten, worse than any derogation. Well… In theory, anyway. In practice he will still be a celebrity loved and lusted.

The winner—their new champion—throws down his gladius and scutum, lifting his arms to the sun. The crowd screams, weeps, convulses in collective liturgical orgasm. This man no longer a man, this _hero_ birthed before them, glistening with blood rather than amnion—was their new shining god, and they will worship the air he exhales, anoint themselves in the sweat that falls from his fingertips. Rose petals flutter from the Colosseum velarium like numinous rain. To any foreigner, this is no mere bloodsport. This is religion.

Garrotte watches as the crowd issues forth from the Colosseum, blood from a mortal wound, the pressure too great to be dammed. All two hundred thousand of them. So many bodies, ecstatic and livid and ready to fall upon the city as though they were righteous liberators themselves. The Praetors have summoned surplus Cohortes Vigilum to patrol the Colosseum District, ready for the night's ritualistic revelry and libations of burnt-wine to fracture into sectarian blue-versus-yellow combat at the slightest of provocations. Even Legionnaire auxiliaries have been dispatched, their steely plates of lorica quite conspicuous amongst the citizenry.

He does not walk amongst them. He crouches, still, on that same arch, waiting for the chaos and noise to subside.

He will be there for a while.

"Must be a pleasant view. What a fool I was, to pay for the prime seats when I could have had one even such as this, eh?"

Garrotte tenses, and glances down. In the shadow of the arch is a Dunmer, whose flamboyant attire somehow had not announced his presence.

"The view: yes. The bout: no. Overchoreographed."

The Dunmer nods, raising his silvern chalice. "Yes. Yes, indeed. But consider the audience, would you not? These specimens, bred of the 'civilized' persuasion, have no grasp of battle desperate and true. The Colosseum is meant to distract and amuse, not traumatize."

"Yes," Garrotte utters, attempting to compress himself lower upon the arch. Hopefully no other wandering eye will espy him.

Moments pass. The Dunmer sighs. "No pleasantries, Garrotte? No 'and how have you faired?' No 'what-ever have you been up to?'"

Garrotte produces a noncommittal noise, eyes flickering over the crowd.

"Oh, very well. Be your usual self. I will suffer it, kind as I am." The Dunmer finishes off his chalice, and throws it to one of the departing revelers in the lower stands, who catches it with surprise. "I have a carriage waiting. Walking is simply unthinkable after events of this magnitude. We shall converse there, eh?"

Garrotte looks down. Zekoreth looks up. After a long pause, Garrotte relaxes.

—

The streets are dense with celebration. The carriage moves at such a pace Garrotte may as well have walked.

Within the cabin, Garrotte's gloved hands grip the edge of the plush velvet seat, his spine spear-straight. The suspension of the carriage is well-engineered, but he feels every loose stone and gap in the road. And the occasional human body. Even here, his hood remains up, scarf bound tight around his mouth.

"I have a preposition, Garrotte." Zekoreth pours himself goblet of red wine, knowing enough of his guest not to bother pouring a second. He replaces the bottle on the rack. "A preposition just for you. A preposition I believe you will indeed like."

Garrotte has known Zekoreth for but a little while. A season and a half, at the very most. But that was all it took: the bizarre Dunmer had made an impression, like a bronze stamp into hot wax. He is nothing but serendipitous. That is his talent, his skill, his philosophy, his vocation. That is him, and there is nothing else.

"I am listening." Though it is difficult, considering the sheer noise from outside, and the occasional pounding on the sides of the carriage. Zekoreth has drawn the curtains across the windows. They sit across from one another in false twilight.

"How I hoped you would. You see, Garrotte, I am, above all things, a mer of the people. But just after that, a mer of business. And—as I am sure you are well aware—what business reigns supreme in our fair Cyrodiil?" He gestures with the goblet to the door of the carriage.

"Death," Garrotte replies automatically.

A smile splits Zekoreth's grey face. "Such pessimism, my friend." He stabs a ringed finger at Garrotte. "Life! Life is a business, and so many are willing to pay what-ever it is they may have for a taste. Would you not agree?" He drank deeply from his goblet. "The smallest taste," he adds, nodding assuredly.

"Rhetorical question," Garrotte observes flatly.

"With a purpose, never you fear." Zekoreth leans forward, setting aside his wine. His eyes are spheres of blood, glinting oddly in what little light penetrates the curtains. "I have called upon two others—a most magnificent man-at-arms, and a magus whose brilliance is without barrier. And then you."

Garrotte meets his gaze. Green eyes clash with red.

"In a realm of guilds and factions, many pleas go unheard, prayers unanswered. Can you imagine that? Within the seat of the illustrious Empire, the polished jewel of Tamriel, that there are wrongs that lie unrighted at the very foot of the throne? What bitter irony, when judges and emperors and gods alike are deaf to the cries of their favored children."

"I have yet to hear a preposition, Zek." How many times has 'preposition' been said in this damnable carriage?

"Ah! How very true. Forgive me—you know of my passions." He clears his throat, allows himself another mouthful of wine, licks his stony lips. "I wish for you to join us, Garrotte. Join our business—our _pact._ You stand to gain much—gold, fame, prestige. Think of the enemies you will duel, the sights you will behold. We will be called criminals, heretics, saviors, heroes! You will life grant life to others as you live! What better preposition, Garrotte?"

The carriage trundles along. Garrotte's eyes never leave Zekoreth's. After a few minutes, Zekoreth idly wonders if Garrotte may have a condition that makes blinking difficult.

"I will think on it," he says at last.

Zekoreth resists the urge to run a hand down his face.

—

"Onward to the estate, then!"

It is a long ride. The entire way, with that voice of gravel tumbling over a rough-grit whetstone, Zekoreth regales him with stories of his supposed allies' feats. Tyr, who divorced the heads from the necks of four men with a single swing. Nicht, who made an entire river reverse its flow uphill. As the Dunmer speaks, the interior of the carriage stinks more and more of red wine. Garrotte realizes after the fourth story that he has already heard of these men. In passing. In rumor. Perhaps even seen their handiwork at a distance. People like them… like Garrotte… tend to find each other, one way or another.

When Zekoreth referred to his 'estate,' Garrotte had assumed he meant a mansion in the Talos Plaza District. But the hours passed, and having drawn back the curtains, he could see they had crossed the great bridge over Lake Rumare.

"Did I say 'estate?' Perhaps I should have said 'villa,'" Zekoreth says with a casual wave of the hand. Garrotte narrows his eyes. His host grins.

Perhaps it is for the best. The night after the Colosseum championship is more dangerous than the battlefield. At least three taverns burn to the ground by morning. The blues and yellows end up fighting, no matter the victor. The Cohortes Vigilum used to try arresting those they found drunkenly fucking in the streets or alleyways, but the local jails could not hold them all. Worse, the revelers started fucking _in_ jail, and few were willing to step in to pry them apart. After the last bout, four years ago, a young couple was found beaten to death—likely with wine bottles or tankards, from the traumatic indentations and crushed eye sockets—and it took the Cohortes three weeks to determine that the man had been an avowed blue, the woman a dedicated yellow. Discovered together, they had been slain by their own compatriots.

Garrotte's mouth twists as he watches the grassy banks of the lake roll by, cypress trees swaying in the gentle breeze.

… Yes, it is for the best.

—

As the villa grows closer, it grows more impressive. A white, shining edifice cresting a hill above the Rumare, in full sight of the Imperial City, framed against a clear sky. They arrive just as the sun begins to singe the horizon; as they pull into the lush courtyard and disembark, Zekoreth stretches whereas Garrotte immediately begins scanning the grounds. White-marble fountains jetting water a full fathom skyward, statues of nude women presenting themselves, exotic fruiting trees and ever-blooming flowers. High stout walls veined with creeping, clinging vines, the tops affixed with sharp steel spikes. Quite standard, as far as Imperial opulence was concerned. The patricians might even call it reserved.

Ever mindful, Zekoreth says a few words to the carriage-driver and riding-guard, pressing stacks of Septims into their hands and then shaking those very hands. The driver directs the horses around back to the stable, the guard retires to the servant's quarters. The host turns his red eyes to find his guest, head a-swivel, still alert. "Never you fear, Garrotte. This property is quite defensible." He chuckles, crossing his arms. "Well, perhaps not from _you._ "

Garrotte peers up at the windows, but spies no one. "Not defensible from your checkbook."

"Semantics, semantics. Shall we go in? I can provide only so much hospitality in a courtyard. Let me, at least, pour you a cup of water you can sniff and stare at."

Satisfied—at what, Zekoreth knew not—Garrotte turns and follows Zekoreth into the compound. Zekoreth considered throwing an arm around the quiet man's shoulders, but—that would be perhaps a bit too forward.

—

The villa is furnished as though someone had mistaken art pieces for footstools. Oh, certainly, to the fashionable Imperial eye, it may have looked quite inviting—surrounding oneself with relics stolen from other cultures was a beloved Cyrodilic tradition—but for someone to live in it, well, that is a different matter entirely.

Garrotte observes, absorbs. Intricate bone carvings from Valenwood, mounted upon the walls, pulled from the flesh of beasts he had never seen and likely never would. High-relief triptychs depicting phases of the moons, formed from molten sand from Elsewyr. Arrays of Dwemer alchemical equipment and devices, displayed now only for aestheticism, the charters of Imperial ownership be damned. Small glass and ebony figurines, obsessively detailed, knapped and abraded in the traditional Ashlander folk-style. He frowned at those.

Zekoreth probably _does_ have a mansion in the Talos Plaza District. Has innocuous safehouses all through Cyrodiil, no doubt. Each one carefully maintained and upkept by a staff who never see their patron, yet say nothing when they see the volume of Septims falling into their hands.

"Let us speak further in the study," Zekoreth offers, directing his guest upstairs with a sweep of the arm.

Garrotte hears the voices before they're halfway down the second-floor corridor. He stops.

"You did not mention company."

"You did not ask."

Garrotte's gloved hand rests on something at his back.

"Well, you are not going to _stab_ me, Garrotte. Not to-day; I but just purchased these carpets." He looks down at them admiringly (what a fine Ra'Gada weave, such elaborate knots!), then blinks, as if remembering where he was. "I only wish for you to meet your future comrades, no more. Such an unreasonable request?"

Garrotte says nothing. Zekoreth turns his back and continues walking down the corridor, and only looks over his shoulder once his hand is on the doorknob. "Trust in me, my friend. You will love them."

—

The four of them sit around the table, staring at one another. The crackling of logs in the fireplace is deafening.

The study, like the rest of the villa, is resplendent, the shelves lined with rare volumes, Bretonnic pastoral paintings hung on the walls, a gilded globe of Nirn on the window-facing workdesk, an Altmeri crystal chandelier. The three guests alternate between eyeing their surroundings and eyeing each other, in a ridiculous game of 'let us not stare at each other simultaneously.'

Zekoreth puffs on his pipe, rolling his eyes heavenward. This… is terribly awkward. To be expected, yes, but… even _he_ is cringing at this social display. "Well, I believe Tyr and Nicht have become fast friends in our absence! Garrotte, why not introduce yourself?"

Garrotte looks at the other two men at the round table.

One, a massive Nord, towering well over a fathom. His aketon, crimson. Slung across the back of his armchair is a scabbarded arming-sword, assumedly imported from Skyrim, if one noted shape of the crossguard. He sits rigidly, as if unused to the soft mortality of his body without the closeness of armor. Below a heavy brow his blue eyes stare back, hard, boring, impassive. He is still, save for the rise and fall of his mighty chest… but Garrotte can feel the force emanating from him. That force pushed him a few inches back from the table.

The other, a… Breton, perhaps, but the merrish features are too pronounced. He moves… noticeably. Blinks far more than he needs to. Crosses and recrosses his ankles. Tugs at the collar and cuffs of his nondescript brown jack. Taps fingers rhythmically against the Valenwood mahogany. But his eyes—when he finally meets gazes with Garrotte, he may look away quickly, but Garrotte feels as though the magus took a fragment of him away.

"Zek has told you enough about me," he says. "Most: untrue. But some truth."

The Nordic man raises an eyebrow. "So you _didn't_ single-handedly repel the Thalmor from Stros M'Kai?"

It is Zekoreth's turn to be stared at by Garrotte. He simply shrugs and tends to his pipe.

"Well, you very nearly had me fooled. I almost bloody believed it. A lone man leaping from warship to warship, leaving only torsos and limbs and heads in his wake." His mouth twitches up at one end. "If he told you I once leveled a castle in Wayrest with a single swing, that didn't happen, either. Aye, don't look so shocked."

A snort from the Breton.

"Yes, yes, very good." Zekoreth hastily reaches under the table and produces a scroll of vellum. "Let us proceed to the Pact, shall we?"

—

They argue well into the night.

Why a pact? Why such a formal thing? Tyr sees hardly any point to such. If they are to work together, let it be. But Zekoreth explains that if they are to function within certain societies, they need professionalism. A semblance of it, anyway.

Zekoreth wishes to add a motto, but the other three find the idea of a motto rather sophomoric.

"The Empire has a motto," he pointed out.

"Not a very good one," Nicht replies dryly.

"Look at the Empire now, Zek," Tyr shot back.

Zekoreth shrugs. "Circumstantial."

Garrotte places another log on the fire, prodding it with an overpriced fire poker. Not enough light from the chandelier. For them, he presumed. "Name?" he asks.

They are all silent.

"We have no need of a name," Zekoreth proclaims.

Tyr throws his hands into the air. "You want a motto but don't want a _name?_ "

"Principle, my good Tyr. Those who need of us will know of us. A name only gives the distant and established a means to come upon us."

Garrotte inclines his head. "Agreed."

They argue even more.

In the end, it is brief. But all contribute.

 _"_ _All pact members must agree before a contract is accepted."  
"_ _Contracts of conflicting interests may not be accepted."  
"_ _A contract may only be executed in full disclosure."  
"_ _For in the end, all matters are a matter of profit."_

"Rather poetic, Garrotte," Zekoreth says approvingly.

They sign.

 _4E 183  
11th of First Seed_

 _Valtyr Rauðrsverð  
Nichtig Erscheinung  
Zekoreth Myaloth  
Garrotte Agar_

"Your signature is less so," Zekoreth says disapprovingly.

* * *

 _No Dragonborn, no Champion, no Nerevarine. No heroes, no villains. No prophecies._

 _Just people._

 _This is going to be a weird one, I'll tell you now. It's been hanging around for a long time, longer than my Fallout work (though one wouldn't know, from the terrible quality of said Fallout work), and will be written somewhat differently to reflect that. It will gradually descend—or ascend, depending on your outlook—into an M rating. It will be rough, inconsistent, unrefined. But for now… here._


	2. Mission One: Dead Drop

"Rats," Tyr mutters.

Nicht bookmarks his tome with a finger and looks up, puzzled. "A moment, just a moment—do you mean… _giant_ rats?"

"Relative to other rodents, perhaps," Zek says with a shrug.

—

A village sacked and razed by the Thalmor nine years ago. Home only to bitter memories, now.

Garrotte, Tyr, and Nicht stood upon a hill overlooking the village. Only its bones remained; stones were pried from their mortar by creeping vines and encroaching roots. Roofs had fallen through. Charred wood was all that remained of most of the center square. Outlying buildings had been reduced to their foundations.

Tyr looks at Nicht.

Nicht sighs and rolls up his sleeves.

—

The village center burnt to the ground, and the rats fled for cover.

"Not exactly what we agreed upon…" Zek muses, thumbing his nose. "Ah, well. As fate would have it, our client granted us a _bonus_ for the deconstruction. He was none too keen on having to pay others to tear down those old houses and shops." He shoots a look at Nicht. "Why could you not have conjured a swarm of cats?"

"Then we'd need to hunt cats," Nicht says, picking ash out of his eyebrows. "And I don't know how to conjure dogs."

—

Nichtig Erscheinungen was not a fighter, nor would any have the lack of sense to mistake him for one. He was not an arguer, or debater, or anything that had the remotest to do with conflict. At first, Garrotte could never quite determine the man-mer's purpose amongst them, but whatever it was—he must have done it well. Zekoreth kept him about, after all.

—

A scholar. Not of war, nothing that prosaic. Of Aetherius and Creatia.

Strange man. Or man-mer, rather.

—

"You speak as though soul gems are living things."

Nicht shrugged in his peculiar way. "In a fashion, they are."

—

"Have you any experience with the containment of souls?"

"No. I tend towards the opposite."

"… Oh."

—

Soul gems, soul jewels, soul eggs, soul stones, anima petram, pyscholithophora... the name was irrelevant. The forceful bondage of consciousness to inanimate objects—the most shimmering and polished of euphemisms could not make _that_ digestible.

Garrotte scrutinized the misshapen not-quite-a-stone, turned it over in his hand. Sometimes sharp, sometimes rough, sometimes smooth, sometimes all three—how? Merely rolling it through his fingers shifted its geometry. Frowning, he held it up to the lantern. Light did not filter through as it should have—it seemed to warp and... go elsewhere. It was as if stained glass had been folded over and over again, folded unto itself, into a blacksmith's puzzle of subtly shifting color.

It was supposed to be empty.

It weighed less than a feather. It grew heavier than lead, Nicht told him, when a soul occupied it.

Garrotte was struck with the sense that it was scrutinizing him.

—

"Empty vessels," the magus says.

Euphemisms. Garrotte despises euphemisms.

He needs the corpses of the recently dead. Yes, very well.

Zekoreth claps a hand on Garrotte's shoulder. "If you need corpses, _well_ , this man is a veritable corpse creation device, let me tell you." Garrotte frowns behind his mask.

The magus glances at Garrotte apprehensively, and continues. "The vessels are best when in a complete state. As such, if the cause of expiration is due to notably violent altercation—"

"Dead people, not dead pieces, got it," interjects Tyr.

—

A dead body of every race. One male, one female.

Twenty corpses.

Between Garrotte and Tyr, being the _cause_ of twenty corpses was not impossible. But… stealing them right out of cemeteries, mausoleums?

"A challenge fit for a charnel pair as you," chimes Zekoreth.

—

"What prevents us from killing the twenty?"

Zekoreth snaps his fingers. "Excellent question, Gar; I knew it would not escape you." He hands Garrotte the unfurled scroll of parchment. "Reasons pertaining to magicka, you see. As our employer described, it was to… ah… 'determine how the element of earth affects the soulflow of the varieties of races during the initial phases of physical bodily decay.' Yes, that was it."

Nicht made an appreciative noise. "It is quite an interesting subject of research. Quite understudied."

"Can't imagine why," Tyr says dryly.

"Think on it. Our names will be penned in the medical tomes, next to the great physicians!"

—

"Why, I requested the death census from Chorrol. I cannot have you digging up every grave from here to Skingrad!"

—

Three to six months. Considering the usual type of wood used for the coffin, the moisture of the soil, and the reason of death… a buried corpse could retain its organs and flesh and skin.

—

They both wore plain clothes. Dark, but plain.

If anyone asked, well—they were on their way to a funeral.

—

One stayed with the horses and the wagon. Two would take their spades and depart.

Stay within a hundred leagues of Chorrol, travel only at night. A wagon manned by only three would arouse suspicion in the citizenry and arouse interest in the brigandage.

Keep it simple.

—

One body per cemetery. That was what they decided.

Any more would arouse suspicion.

—

It would be ideal, of course, to draw their charnel collection from every part of Cyrodiil, but that was simply too much ground to cover. This magus needed those bodies soon.

"Unless I have the samples within three months," he says, gesturing to the sky, "I will miss the opportunity to conduct my research under the sign of the Atronach. That is the most ideal condition."

"Perhaps you could wait until Rain's Hand, and begin experimentation under the sign of the Mage," Nicht offered.

The magus shakes his head. "Absolutely not. It would provide substandard results."

"Substandard? Substandard, _how_?" Nicht scoffs. "A Guardian constellation may very well be superior, considering the multifaceted nature of such an experiment."

"The inverse is the issue, _actually._ Too great a sphere sacrifices precision. This is a specific element, specific objects, specific forms—"

"Well, if precision is so important, you should conduct this research at different times of the year. Under the Ritual, as it concerns the dead. The Apprentice, concerning internal magickal displacement. The Serpent, concerning rates and effects of decay." Nicht crosses his arms, looking upward. "In fact—"

Garrotte and Tyr drag him away by the arms before the magus decides to experiment on _them._

—

Alain shivers, huffs on his hands.

He stands guard.

As well as one can guard the dead, anyway. Night-watch was more title than function. But old man Roderic needs a proper night of rest. His days in the Chorrol town guard were well over, and training the village militia is no easy task.

Alain paces up and down the lane. His thoughts drift to Helena. He warms at the thought. Not that he took the night-watch to impress her. Never.

His dog keeps him company, padding alongside.

"Perhaps I should join the town guard," Alain says, his voice loud in the night. The crickets quiet, lend their ears.

His dog looks up at him thoughtfully.

"Well, once I've gathered the coin, and learned all Roderic has to offer." He gestures vaguely. "Father was a farmer, and his father before, and his father… and it's an honest trade. But… I can be more. Do more." For himself. For his children. For his eventual family. That wasn't pride, was it? That was reason. He hefted a waster better than a hoe, and was one of the few Roderic trusted with live steel. He could cleave through hay men better than any. Especially when Helena was watching from across the training yard. Really, it's been long enough, he should—

His dog makes a low noise.

Alain stops, squinting into the darkness. "What is it?" He lays a hand on his sword—Roderic's old brand. "Who goes there?"

—

Garrotte unceremoniously dumps the bodies of the young man and the dog into the exhumed grave.

"Clever," Tyr mutters.

Garrotte does not rise to the bite of his words.

—

He looks at her, wonders how she died so young.

Flesh-fire, probably, looking at her hands and feet—swollen, black. It had been raining hard as of late, and the farmers who had not invested in millet were cursing the clouds. Villagers did not have the coin to treat such with magick—and most magi would not deign to waste their time on anyone without a family name of import.

He purses his lips. He hopes she had not suffered too long.

Garrotte roughly lifts her from Tyr's arms and packs her into the barrel.

She probably did.

—

Masser and Secunda hide behind clouds.

Crouching in the boughs of the tree, Garrotte waits. The undertaker finishes doing his rounds and finally departs; his parting glance stops at the trunk of the tree.

From the inside of his jacket, Garrotte withdraws a small glass vial. Holding it up to his eye, it appears to only contain water—that is, aside from the faint greyish glow it seems to emanate, or how it seems to draw color out of anything near.

He carefully— _carefully_ —unplugs the stopper, and downs the vial's contents in a single go.

And he waits.

He nestles more closely against the branches of the tree, bracing his limbs.

Ten minutes pass, and he can feel the concoction twisting in his blood, flowing around his muscles. His heart rate quickens, thrumming loud within his ribcage, each beat uneven, without rhythm. He takes a few deep, slow breaths, tensing, expecting the worst—a hard spasm, or anything else indicating rejection.

No—the pain all centers behind his eyes. Beginning as a mere ache of the head and jaw, then growing to contort his face with the discomfort. Not a sharp pain, no, but a great swelling feeling—boiling floodwaters at a dam—begins to build behind his eyes. Each eye began to lose focus, refocus, begin to flick about independently of one another. His eyelids twitch, the muscles around his eye-sockets jumping at random. Unbidden, tears streak down his face.

He blinks, surprised at the warm wetness behind his mask. Strange. He has not felt tears for… how long?

But with that blink, that great building pain implodes upon itself and returns to that dull ache. And now—

Garrotte's eyes sweep the cemetery. He can see everything, now, in sharp relief. Color has drained from the world, but he has no need for it. To him, the night is brighter than any day.

He gently alights from the tree, hefts his spade, and begins his hunt in earnest. The night breeze has already dried his alchemical tears.

—

Nicht had suggested using some alchemical acid to eat through the wood, to bypass the nails. But there was no guarantee this supposed acid would not decide to eat the corpse, either.

The prying-bar was the best approach. But, the sound of wood splintering from nail would be far too loud in the night air. Far too conspicuous.

So Tyr and Garrotte had to lift out the coffin, carry it out of the cemetery a ways into the forest, and _then_ begin their work.

Undoubtedly, some night-watch saw two men skulking away into the dark, a coffin braced above their heads, and was too baffled to say a word.

—

Garrotte throws an arm across Nicht's chest. He stops, grunting, as if he has walked into an iron bar.

Garrotte points. Nicht looks down, squints.

A string is pulled taut across their path. Tracing the thread, he sees that it leads to… a bell.

He opens his mouth for a "my thanks," but Garrotte shakes his head and simply steps over the string.

—

Garrotte's spade scrapes against the hard-packed soil. Well, then. Nicht's geological hypothesis had some weight to it, then.

"Stand aside," Nicht says, rolling up his sleeves. No need for geometrics or incantations. He had prepared for this.

Garrotte perches like a bird on nearby gravestone.

Kneeling, Nicht places his hands down against the dirt—one hand curled into a fist, the other palm-flat. He breathes—tasting not the night air or the fragrance of rotting flowers, but the soil itself. Sand, dirt, clay, silt, rock. Every singular particulate.

His breathing slows—slows until his lungs are nearly still. Still like stone.

In the silence, Garrotte hears it—a sound like rock, somewhere, churning. But they are not rocks, he realizes…

They are Nicht's bones.

By Masser's light, he can see it clearly enough: the skin of Nicht's forearms skin hardening, drying, becoming fissured.

The magicka flow comes slow, at first. A single grain of sand, rolling down an incline. From beneath his perch, Garrotte feels something like a family of voles digging tunnels. But the flow increases—and intensifies—and mounts—until it is not sand but boulders and the magicka is an avalanche. Not voles, now. It feels like the dead themselves are thrashing in their graves. Garrotte feels his own bones begin to react—to scrape and chafe against one another, vibrating within the sheath of his muscles. His teeth ache in his mouth. Pain. The plates of his skull begin to—

With a sharp inhalation, Nicht pulls back and stands up, swaying slightly. Garrotte hops down lightly and presses his fingers into the dirt.

They go right in.

… Soft. Soft like loam.

Nicht's breathing returns—slightly labored. "I will join you in a moment," he whispers, resting against a gravestone, leaning his head back. His hands, held delicately away from his body, begin to soften back into mortal flesh. "Just… a moment, please."

—

They were close. But people had taken notice.

No longer shadows in the night. They masqueraded as dead-drivers, now. The cover of their wagon had three squares of red fabric pinned to each side.

Plagued dead. Stay well away.

—

"Forgive us for harrying you, sirs. But we live in dangerous times." The captain offers an apologetic smile. "If you encounter any other patrols, I am afraid this may occur again."

"Better patrols than necromancers," Garrotte says.

The captain's smile tightens.

—

"We should keep watch on him," Tyr says suddenly.

Garrotte grunts as he slides the barrel into the wagon. Male Breton. Check. "Elaborate."

"This magus character. This Altmer." Tyr gestures at the barrels neatly stacked, buffered with soft grasses and few bunches of fragrant flowers. Alas, the odor is still quite rank. "We can't just take him at his word."

"Elaborate further."

Tyr bites his tongue in irritation. Must he always speak like this? "With twenty corpses—and you've seen how the flesh hasn't withered away—he could animate two-score bloody bonewalkers. Two-bloody-score. Or cleave them together. Five bonewalkers borne of four corpses. Or… an even greater one, built from the flesh and bones of all two-score." Well, that was highly unlikely. But still. He was making a bloody point.

Garrotte is silent, so Tyr continues. "He's part of the bloody Guild, so he has more resources than sense. Equipment and materials no hedge magus could afford. And he said it was 'for the greater good—' well, gods know what _he_ considers good. A Nord mounted and stuffed in his sitting room?"

More silence. They climb into the wagon, Tyr taking the reins. Horses did not like Garrotte. He did not like them.

"I agree."

With the reins in one fist, Tyr jabs his thumb over a shoulder. "So you're content with all this."

"I do not see you returning bodies and groveling in forgiveness."

"I can have my _reservations_ without being a bloody monk about it."

They ride in the quiet for a while. And then:

"Killing twenty bonewalkers will not be difficult. And the reward will be good." A pause. "You can use your big sword for the big ones."

Tyr just shakes his head.

—

"I'm not angry." He rests his hands on his hips. "I've only seen a lot of dead, lately."

"We all have."

"People who needn't have died."

Nicht's shoulders sag. "Tyr, I know—"

"I'm not going to berate you for not walking the path of a travelling miracle-magus," Tyr utters, harshness in his voice undirected. "But I've seen enough plowblades melted to forge axeheads and spearpoints. Magi are so hated in some places, if they only—" He waves a hand dismissively. "But the common people don't know whether to be in awe or fear them. One rogue magus turns the people against the whole, and the Guild slams its doors. It's—" Another undirected gesture. "A bloody farce. A bloody fucking farce."

Nicht is quiet. They sit there for a time, listening to the rain.

"I knew a magus," he says, tracing lazy designs on the table, "who spent her entire life going from village to village, healing the sick. Decades upon decades. She looked thrice her age, from the strain of such work—but there she rode, white-haired, into poxes and plagues alike. I asked her what she thought of the Guild of Magi. She said that one never existed—that there was but a collection of people who thought themselves better by merit of their birth."

Tyr looks down at his hands. Feels the calluses of his fingers. "What became of her?"

"Mended the wounds of a man beaten half-dead by his father-in-law. The father-in-law stabbed her in the back in the midst of an inn. No one came to her aid."

Tyr felt like they should laugh. Neither did. The rain laughed for them.

—0—0—0—0—0—0—

 _Incomplete. But here's something._


End file.
